


let nothing you dismay

by sometimeseffable



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Christmas Themes, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, advent calendar prompts, some plot if i can manage it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:20:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21673573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimeseffable/pseuds/sometimeseffable
Summary: The story of Aziraphale and Crowley's first Christmas in the South Downs, interspersed with scenes from winters passed (aka: trees aren't the only things pining around here)For Drawlight's 31 Days of Ineffables advent prompts!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	1. Mistletoe

_ England, 1713 _

As soon as he heard the peal of fake laughter, Aziraphale excused himself from a lackluster conversation with a trio of bankers to follow the sibilant voice. He waded through rather impolitely through a throng of England’s uppercrust, excited now by the prospect of a familiar face at the ball.

Aziraphale found her lounging (always lounging) against a doorframe by the parlor. Crowley looked quite the picture in a black velvet dress, dripping with lace at the elbows and embossed with golden serpentine patterns along the front paneling. Her head tipped back as she let out another loud laugh that her companion - whom Azirphale recognized as the son of their host - seemed obliviously unaware was entirely false. 

“Ah, Mr. Fell!” Young Henry Alvers exclaimed as he drew into their space, “I hope you’re enjoying the Winter’s Eve ball. Allow me to introduce you to my mother’s friend, Lady Crow - “

“We’ve met,” Crowley simpered, eyeing Aziraphale behind smoked-quartz lenses, “Childhood acquaintances. Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Fell.”

_Childhood acquaintances._ Aziraphale gave a short, respectful bow. “Likewise, Lady Crowley.” 

“Oh, Henry, could you be a love and fetch me a glass of water? I’m parched.”

Henry smiled and nodded, eager to impress the woman-shaped being lavishing him with attention. He beat a hasty retreat to the refreshment table, leaving the two hereditary enemies alone.

“I must admit, I’m rather pleased to see you,” Aziraphale said, entirely honest, “Though perhaps I would not feel this way were I to know your, er, intentions with the young Alvers boy.”

Crowley snorted, crossing her arms as she leant in a most unladylike manner against the doorframe. “Relax, angel, it’s nothing untoward. Downstairs wants the boy’s father out of the way, politically speaking. Lord Alvers isn’t much of a church man, but personally I thought Henry would do very well in the seminary. It’d piss off his father and cause a scandal, all with a little touch of irony for ol’Beelz in the report. Pretty clever, huh?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale faintly. He abruptly became very interested in the contents of his wine goblet.

Crowley looked a bit put out that her genius hadn’t been given its proper respect. “Why’re you here, then?”

The angel took a drink from his goblet. “Well. If you must know, Upstairs thought young Henry would do very well as a preacher, given his standing. Even if that meant going against his father’s wishes.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

They both went quiet. It wasn’t the first time their respective sides ended up pushing them to achieve a similar goal. 

Crowley cleared her throat. “Seems you caught me in a bad position.” At Aziraphale’s questioning look, she nodded at the ceiling. A bundle of green leaves and white berries hung above them. “Mistletoe. All the rage in the servant’s quarters. Supposed to give the lucky lady a kiss if she’s caught under it.”

“O-oh, really?” Aziraphale swallowed hard. Panic fluttered in his stomach. “I - I didn’t know that. What an…interesting tradition.”

Crowley, clearly teasing him, raised a brow. She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort immensely. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect you to follow through.”

“Oh?” That wounded. Just a touch.

“Yeah. S’a pagan thing, so. No need to get your feathery butt involved.”

Aziraphale looked up at her for a long, hard moment. Took in the casual ease she held in the midst of a social gathering, the confident way she held herself in the dress, the way the candlelight shone from behind her quartz glasses so that he could just see the outline of her unique eyes. 

He took a quick glance around - Henry was returning with the water, and he had to make sure he caught the boy’s father before the night ended - before crowding into Crowley’s personal space. The demon tried taking a step back in surprise, but hit the doorframe.

“Perhaps I’ll surprise you,” Aziraphale whispered, before kissing her quickly on one flushed cheek. A spark seemed to ignite where his lips touched her, “Happy Christmas, my dear.”

“Ngh,” Crowley said as he pulled away, mouth agape. She started to form some semblance of a thought just as Henry appeared at her elbow, passing her a glass of water.

“Well, must be off,” Aziraphale excused himself, “Must give my regards to the Lord of the house. I shall see you soon, I hope. Good evening, Lady Crowley. Henry.” 

With that, the angel disappeared into the crowd, hoping Crowley hadn’t noticed the way his cheeks flamed, nor the way his fingers traced his lips contemplatively as he left. 

He could barely hear Henry’s concerned voice as he left:

“Are you alright, Lady Crowley? You’ve gone quite red.”


	2. Snow

_The South Downs, 2021_

Demons and angels, while of the same original stock, are subject to certain unique predispositions. Instinctual thoughts, habits, and actions that they sometimes have little to no control over. Most demons do not actively try to suppress such instincts, instead thriving off the bloodborne chaos of simple neurons firing. Crowley has tried very hard over the past few centuries to shove these gut reactions down in order to become the sort of human Anthony J. Crowley would be. Anthony J. Crowley was calm, cool, and, most especially, suave in a classically romantic way.

That being said, it is important to note that nature sometimes finds a way to overcome nurture. 

It was early December when Crowley and Aziraphale decided to take a walk around their new neighborhood in the South Downs. An unseasonably heavy snowfall had laid the ground in white the night prior, setting up a beautiful scene of icicled cottages and fluffy dips and peaks over the road. Like a sleepy town straight out of a Hallmark movie. Hand in hand, Crowley thought it couldn’t have been more perfect if they’d miracled it.

Aziraphale pointed at a cottage down the road and ran ahead to ogle a particularly accurate manger scene in someone’s lawn. In doing so, the angel had (quite unintentionally) angled his back in just such a way, collar dipped _just so_ , that Crowley, being a demon, found himself caught by the inexorable tug of a single impulse.

Without thinking, Crowley scooped up a handful of snow in his knit glove and packed it into an icy ball of hellish wrath. Poor Aziraphale never stood a chance as the snowball was lobbed through the air with demonic strength and deadly accuracy. It hit him square on the neck. The angel let out a horrified _“Eep!”_ before tumbling, face first, into the snow drift in front of him.

Crowley’s sides hurt as he laughed. Laughed and laughed, tears streaming down his face, wheezing, “Sorr - hhh - sorry! Had to - eheheheh - “

The demon righted himself with one last wipe under the eyes, intent on apologizing in full and making it up to his partner with breakfast at the cafe nearby. Only then did he notice Aziraphale was still buried headlong into the pile of snow.

And he wasn’t moving.

Crowley’s grin slid.

“Angel?” Crowley’s hesitant walk broke into a run, “Angel? Shit, Aziraphale, are you okay?”

He fell to his knees, dark jeans instantly soaked through, and rolled the prone angel over. Aziraphale’s face was lax, flushed red with cold. He did not appear to be breathing. 

Cue instant panic.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry! I - hold on, I’ll get help, I’ll - “

Crowley yelped as an arm caught him about the wrist. At the same time, Aziraphale shouted, “Blasphemy!” and yanked him into a snowy hellscape. Anthony J. Crowley, scourge of Earth and creator of the Great and Terribly M25, _squealed_ as powdery fury slid down the collar of his jacket. Angel and demon tussled about, laughing and shouting, vying for celestial dominance, until Aziraphale sat perched atop Crowley’s hips. His partner lay backside-down in the snow, dazed.

“You little bassstard,” Crowley hissed, “I thought I hurt you!”

“That’s what you get for playing dirty, dearest.” Aziraphale grinned from high above him. Snow clung to his lashes; he’d lost his knit cap in the struggle. “All’s fair in love and war, as they say.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Said I’m sorry already. Let me up pleassse. I’m f-fre _esssing_.” As if to prove it, a shudder wracked his thin frame, begging Aziraphale to take pity on it. His glasses had slid up his forehead in the chaos, eyes wide and pleading. 

Aziraphale considered him for a moment before pulling them both up from the cold. A simple snap of his fingers dried off their soaked clothes.

He straightened a scowling Crowley’s scarf with a smile, kissing his partner’s cheek even as the demon’s arms folded across his chest.

“Not to worry, my darling,” he said, linking their arms as if nothing had happened, “I’ll keep you warm when we get back.”


	3. Nutcracker

_New York City, 1944_

“Sorry I’m late,” Crowley whispered as he slid into his seat, “Minor temptation in Queens to take care of.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, pleased that Crowley had shown up at all. “Not to worry. You’ve only missed the very beginning, and that’s far from the best part.”

“Hell forbid,” he snorted, though he slouched forward in earnest to best see to ballet. The Americans had really outdone themselves on the scenery, paiting a lovely Christmas picture replete with tree and tinsel.

In the half-light of the opera box, Aziraphale could just make out the sharp cut of Crowley’s suit, the new curl to his updated hairstyle. He looked _good_ – not that that was anything out of the ordinary. But it was especially more pleasing to see him in such a close setting.

It’d been a little over a decade since their reunion ( _since the church, since the bombs, since the books, since everything changed)_ and they’d been slowly rebuilding the intricacies of the Arrangement. Since both were immortal, it would take more than a decade to scab over eighty years of silence following what was their worst fight ever (including the time they were on opposite sides of a Roman testudo formation).

Aziraphale turned his attention back to the stage, where a young lady appeared to be fighting with a gaggle of human-like mice. It was all very fantastical, and the audience’s relieved joy wafted from the stage floor up to their private box. The war still raged on, and though Aziraphale had a feeling it would not last much longer, humans leapt at the chance to escape it all for a few hours of enjoyment. What with how quickly he responded to Crowley’s letter, inquiring whether he’d be in the United States any time soon on assignment and if that assignment happened to be near the New York City Ballet, Aziraphale supposed he could relate to the sentiment.

“I saw the very first production, you know,” he whispered, leaning close to his companion, “Saint Petersburg, 1892. It didn’t fare nearly as well as this one. Potyr was quite upset, poor dear.”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “He’s the gay composer, yeah?” That earned him a light smack on the arm. “What, it’s true! At least I’m trying.”

That was…true, and Aziraphale felt a pang of guilt for it. He _had_ been trying – they both had, in that quiet, obfuscating way they did everything involving their…workplace association.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, a touch somber, “You are.”

Those infernal glasses swung to look at him; in the reflected light, he couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes. _What did it all mean?_ he wondered, _The books, the bomb. Am I remiss in thinking there’s more?_

He wanted to slide off the lenses, to demand answers in the relative safety of their booth, where he could pretend neither Heaven nor Hell could see them. To lean forward as he had under the mistletoe all those decades ago, a barest brush of lips to cheek, a promise.

 _Not now,_ he wanted to say, _But someday, perhaps. Soon._

Instead, he patted Crowley’s thigh twice in the blithest way possible and said, “Oh, you’ll like this part”, firmly setting them back in their surroundings. Aziraphale tried to ignore the heat in his cheeks as he felt Crowley staring at him for two, three, four long seconds, until he finally turned back to the stage.

And if, during the _Pas de Deux,_ when the Prince and the Sugar Plum Fairy danced in tandem, their fingers brushed ever so slightly on the armrest…Aziraphale swore he would not read into it.


	4. Cranberry

_ South Downs, 2021 _

“Still say it was a dirty trick,” Crowley groused as the pair stepped into the cheerful warmth of the cafe. A tinkle of bells brought his attention up to the doorframe, where someone had tied a bunch of mistletoe. His stomach flipped at a certain memory, and a demonic glare turned it into a bunch of holly.

Aziraphale shot him a mild look. “Might I remind you  _ who  _ exactly started it, my dear?”

Crowley hunched further into the upturned collar of his dark peacoat, hiding his frown. Admittedly, he was less concerned with losing the impromptu snowball fight than fighting a lingering guilt for how hard he’d thrown that snowball. 

Sensing this, Aziraphale patted his arm. “Why don’t you get us a table while I order. Coffee?”

“Hmrg,” Crowley grumbled, “Black.”

With that, he swaggered over to a small, round metal table in the corner. Aziraphale watched him, amused and smitten, before wandering to the counter.

“Hi!” said the cheerful young barista. Nineteen, bisexual, saving money to go to university. Self-conscious of the botched nose piercing. “What can I get you?”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully and bent to inspect the glittering display of pastries. “One blueberry scone and a vanilla latte, if you would be so kind. And, do you have any flavored coffees?” He leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “My friend prefers them, but would never admit it.”

The girl grinned. She whispered back, “We have a cranberry flavored dark roast as our holiday special, if that would fit the bill?”

“Oh, excellent. A medium, please.” The angel waited until she turned her back to start their orders to stuff a tenner in the glass tip jar. She seemed the type to refuse such a gift on principles of pride, but he thought she’d do very well at London Metropolitan. 

“So,” Aziraphale said, settling into his seat with the air of someone broaching a sensitive topic in addition to the coffees, “About our - our earlier conversation.”

“I told you, angel. I don’t  _ care _ what you do, but you know I don’t celebrate it.” Crowley was, of course, referring to Christmas. Their moving in together was to be a year of firsts, and Aziraphale was Heaven-bent on enjoying every one of them.

“What about the non-religious traditions?” Aziraphale offered, “You know, baking biscuits, Christmas crackers - er, secular holiday crackers - tinsel around the banister. Oh! We could invite the whole group over for dinner. What do they do with the - the horrible jumpers?”

“Ugly Christmas sweater party,” said Crowley, whose lips twitched in spite of himself. Though he was loathe to admit he, he too was fond of their friends from the Not-Apocalypse, whom Aziraphale had dubbed ‘the gang’ after hearing Adam call them a ‘squad’. “Whatever you want, angel. Fine by me.”

It was clear Aziraphale wasn’t to get a more concrete answer from him. Not today, anyhow. To worm an answer from the demon was akin to pulling teeth from a claw-happy cat. Instead, he nodded, apparently satisfied. He watched Crowley lean back to drape himself over the back of his chair, taking a sip of his coffee.

The mug paused for a brief second. Though his eyes were covered, Aziraphale could tell they had widened, and were flicking between him and the coffee. He pulled his best expression of innocent - which was not very good, all things considered.

“Decent brew here,” Crowley mumbled, though his hands tightened that much tighter around the mug, a tiny smile hidden behind the rim.

_ You still think I don’t know you as well as I do.  _ Aziraphale hid his smirk in a bite of pastry.  _ We’ll see about that. _


	5. Fire

_ Bethlehem, 0 AD _

__ Once Gabriel left his meager lodgings, practically preening his wings from something akin-to-yet-not-quite-Pride, Aziraphale decided to clear his head. The night was cold and dry, and he shivered with a sudden gust of wind, pulling his simple robes closer. 

“ _ The Almighty has had a son,” Gabriel thundered, pounding Aziraphale on the back like it’d been his own newborn,  _ “ _ A son! Imagine that. I was the one to tell young Mary of his coming, of course.” _

_ Aziraphale tried to a weak smile. “But...why does She want a mortal son? Or...half-mortal? Do we know the specifics?” _

_ The Messenger shrugged him off. “Who knows. Not our place to question, you know that. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her, I mean, those humans and their emotions - “ _

Aziraphale frowned. Gabriel was right; it was not his place to wonder. The Plan was, after all, Ineffable. He ambled towards the entrance to the city. 

Though a few homes were still lit by candlelight, it did nothing to dwarf the immensity of the star-speckled tapestry above him. Wandering around the outskirts of Bethlehem, the angel did not expect to run into anyone at this hour. But of course, when he rounded a corner, there in the dirt sat - 

“What on  _ earth  _ are you doing out here?”

Crawley took a swig from his clay cup. Aziraphale could smell the ferment of alcohol from its contents. “There were no rooms at the inn,” he said wryly.

“Ah.” Aziraphale settled into the firmament next to him, “You’ve heard as well?”

“Hard not to,” the demon snorted, “Can sense the little bugger from a mile away.”

“Crawley!”

Gold eyes, formerly staring up at the night sky, deigned to roll at him. “Oh, my apologies. His  _ royal  _ bugger.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t think he’s royal.”

The being next to him snorted, but said nothing else. The usual loose slouch to his posture had hardened, hardly more slither than being ready to bolt. His head tilted towards the East just so, in the vague direction of a farm, and a manger, and a newborn babe resting safe with his parents. 

“Is that what’s got you in such a state?”

Crawley didn’t answer for a long while. He took another sip.

“Did She tell you about him beforehand, angel?” he asked, swirling the cup pensively.

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. “Ah - no. We don’t speak much. Not since the whole...the sword business, you know.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

It was a whisper, a hint of something long buried deep that still ached and oozed when prodded. Aziraphale didn’t know if he wanted to hear it, even if he had a suspicion. It could be a trick, he reasoned. Crawley was a demon. Demons lied. 

Then again, the Lord’s son had just been born this night. Was it not in Her spirit to be kind? He spread his hands in a gesture of peace. 

“Listen, it’s - “

“I ssswear if you say  _ ineff - “ _

“Cold,” Aziraphale finished. A fire blazed to life next to them, instantly bathing the demon in its warm glow. “We’ll catch a chill out here life this. Frankly, that’s one human experience I feel I can live without.”

Slitted eyes regarded him warily. Hesitant, Crawley inched closer to the fire, feeling the heat soak into his poikilothermic blood. “We?”

“I don’t feel much like staying at the inn right now, if it’s all the same.” With that lingering in the air, Aziraphale held out his hand expectantly. Crawley passed him the cup. The grain alcohol was watery, but it went down warm. He nodded at the sky. “I never got to work on them, personally. But I think whoever did managed a bang up job. Nice how they change depending on where you are, hm?”

Crawley went tense next to him. 

“I guess,” he said. Paused. Pointed at a cluster in the eastern sphere. “That one’s nice.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Aziraphale leant back on his hands, forcing his spine into something casual, nonthreatening. With the warmth of the fire and a - he’d consider the word  _ colleague  _ for future reference - lightening the pitch dark night, suddenly Heaven and all its bureaucracies seemed lightyears away. Perhaps spending the evening lightly toasting under a blanket of stars wasn’t the worst way to consort with the Enemy. 

After all, Christ had just been born. A little celebration was in order, in his humble opinion. 


End file.
